


At the End of Days

by Zoya1416



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Cetagandan War Exhibition, Gen, Historical Photographs, Komarran reactions, New: Epilogue ch. 7 2004-06-016, Nuclear Weapons, Slice of Life, Working on Reconciliation, coercive pornography, destruction of Vorkosigan Vashnoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles has found a box of photographs of Vorkosigan Vashnoi taken prior to the city's destruction. The warning is for description of some of the pictures.</p><p>Complete 2014- 06-13</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the End of Days

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Ghem's Baby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048793) by [Zoya1416](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416). 



> Vorkosigan's is LMB's. This background for this story is set in my work, "The Ghem's Baby."

Gregor stared with loathing at the box with its ghastly record of Cetagandan wartime atrocities. The excellent coffee, now neglected, was still giving off a divine odor, but neither man in the room wanted to drink it. Gregor leaned back in his new ergonomic chair, acquired as a gift from Laisa so that she could steal his old one.

“Where did you say you got these photographs?”

Miles was sitting on the edge of the chair, his own coffee cooling, and said, “They were brought to my attention by Cyril Engalychev. He's the speaker for Five Oaks.” He was tapping a finger upon his knees, fidgeting. He was wearing his typical gray-on-gray suit, but this one had a boutonniere rosebud, cut from Ekaterin's garden this morning. She'd told him before that the creamy pink and yellow flower was called “Peace,” and he certainly needed to carry that emblem of serenity with him today. He'd had a week to look at the box's contents, but he was by no means comfortable with them. He'd have given anything to shove them back inside and bury them forever, but he knew Gregor would have to see them. Needed to see them. Gregor was the only one who could decide what to do with these hideous things.

“In the mountains?”

“No, it's actually barely in the foothills. A goat-herder gave them to him. As I understand it, they were at the bottom of a box which was finally being cleared out after all this time. The box was at the back of her loft, and she wanted more space for hay. She found other family relics up there as well, in poor condition. A wedding veil which was torn and had stains on it. One broken child's shoe.” Gregor became even stiller, not that he was ever a restless man, but Miles knew he was thinking about the small shoe that his mother had brought to Kareen, as proof of Gregor's life. It was the last thing she'd seen, just before she'd grabbed a nerve disrupter and tried to kill Vordarian.

The Emperor shook his head a fraction. 

“So these photographs—black and white—were there all along. We never knew there was this kind of documentation. This is Vorkosigan Vashnoi?”

“Yes.”

They looked at the damnable photos again. Many of them were pornographic, violations of modest Barrayaran women. Here were two with long skirts, but no blouses, rubbing each other's nipples. In other photos the same pair were wearing blouses but no skirts.They and other women were shown nude in disgusting poses with grinning Cetagandan soldiers. Other solitary women were lying on coaches, arms over their heads, small swirls of cloth not covering anything essential. Their strained smiles came through even in this archaic medium of black and white.

“Why did he take these?” Gregor wondered. “They made him, didn't they?”

“Yes. Apparently for their amusement. But he seems to have saved extra copies for himself.”

“To look at?”

Miles had known Gregor all his life, but he hadn't seen this expression of disgust before. He carried on quickly. “No, from a small diary they found, he was keeping a record of these things to show General Piotr. I have it with me—I had it transcribed for you.”

“Piotr didn't need more evidence of atrocities. This photographer—do we know his name?”

Miles thought back to the almost hysterical speaker who'd called him to take these horrible things off his hands. “They're trying to check with other families in Five Oaks. The goatherd had owned the farm only twenty years or so and didn't have any record of him.”

Gregor spread them out on his desk. Not all the pictures were indecent. Here were two boys, looking like scamps, sharing an apple. They were very thin, in poor clothing, but their natural impishness came through. There was a woman holding the hand of a small child, standing at the edge of an ancient arch which was made beautiful by the spread of ivy. In another a girl was dangling a string for a black and white kitten. Two wrinkled elderly women sat on a stoop, in conversation, one holding a small baby. In these and others the photographer's gift recorded the vanished scenes of ordinary life. 

Behind all of them, a mere backdrop here, was the destroyed city, with its ancient architecture revealed. Vorkosigan Vashnoi was almost as old as Vorbarr Sultana, and had never had any urban renewal. Dirt streets, not even cobblestoned in some photos, ran in front of tiny, crowded houses which were set with old wooden doors. The stone of the lintels was worn in the middle, from centuries of use. The boys were sitting beside a hand—operated water pump. Water had spilled onto the streets—the boys might just have had a drink with their apple. The stone wall behind them had been repaired at least once, by darker stone which hadn't had time to fade. The kitten's string dangled in front of a withered and spindly rose bush still staked to its trellis. One small rose drooped from the top branch. 

Here, too, though, were other photographs apparently sneaked from within a crowd. A mass grave, with bodies tossed in it. A blurred group of men half a block away were kicking something. A closer shot later showed that a elderly man had been kicked to death. Apparently Cetagandans didn't use energy weapons when brute force was enough. The dead man was sprawled just inside a small park. Old trees drooped over him. Most damning and fascinating of all were the photographer's notations on the back, in a quick firm handwriting, with names and other information.“Sosi and Dosia at the Lyceum. “Sosi, Dosia, and Katya with ghem-soldiers, May 30th.”“Lyev and Dimi eating an apple, September 13th.” “At the Count's Road entrance. Unknown man killed. September 20th. Three ghem soldiers”—the names were given. Miles didn't recognize any of them and was grateful for that. 

Gregor grimly poked the pictures back into the envelope. "How did he get these? I thought they needed tripods." 

"No, by then they had small box cameras. Easily carried, and some were very small, about two and a half inches by four inches. But there's more." 

“Yes?” 

Miles pulled out the other envelope he'd been saving, and shook a blue and white neckerchief onto the desk. “When the goat-herder found the box, the neckerchief was wrapped around something hard, covered by a piece of paper, which strictly forbade anyone to open it. 'Nyet. No light. Do not open.' I thought it might be more photographs, but I couldn't think why they'd be rolled up so tight.”

“So you opened them.” Gregor gave Miles—not a smile, but a slight crinkling of his eyes.

“I would never”—hotly denied Miles, while Gregor continued on, with a tiny trickle of amusement. “At least it wasn't a tank.”

“Gregor, that was almost thirty years ago. I don't do things like that now.”

The Emperor and his foster-brother sneered at each other.

“So what's in here? What are you hiding now?”

“I don't know about black and white photography, or any other kind, really,” admitted Miles. He got up and started pacing Gregor's private office, the one hung with modern paintings. Gregor had started his personal art collection before his majority, saying that he wanted to showcase men and women still working.

“So I asked Professor and Professora Vorthys about it. The Professora is really excited about these; she wants to see them mounted in a collection, once you've decided what you want to do with them. I can't see showing most of this stuff, frankly, still too appalling, but if anyone knows how to handle this, she would. She could make a tasteful showing with just some of them." Miles was almost gabbling. "Or she would be able to, if you wanted to do anything except burn them. It's your decision. But I don't think they should be burned, because that would mean there's no respecting of the original wishes, the desire, to keep a record, and we've never had any documentation about Vorkosigan Vashnoi at all, it shouldn't be suppressed--although it will stir up emotions and--" 

Gregor. who'd seen all this hyperactivity and rapid speechifying many times before, pulled his foster-brother back to attention. 

“What did they say? And stop pacing.”

“Sorry, sire. The Professora knows all about historical photography and almost snatched the bundle out of my hands the second I showed it to her. She demanded to know whether I had unwrapped it, and when I told her I hadn't, she said that by feel these seemed to be exposed film canisters which hadn't been—printed? Printed yet. They would have been destroyed by light.”

Miles was now on another energy-displacing activity, biting his fingernails. “So she had another professor, a lady in Arts, who does know all about this take them into a darkroom, and open them. She could make prints. She did make prints. They're in there.” He pushed another envelope across the desk.

Gregor opened this and pulled out another dozen photographs.

“This one's all white. And this one. There's supposed to be something here?”

“Keep looking,” Miles said hoarsely.

On the third picture was something both men recognized, although neither had ever seen it: a round, billowing cloud which was supported by another, vertical cloud pillar underneath. The mushroom cloud familiar to everyone.

Gregor's mouth dropped open and he gasped, one of the few times since since childhood Miles had seen him lose any control.

“He filmed the bombing? This is Vorkosigan Vashnoi?”

“At the instant it was put to the torch, yes.”

“I thought radiation destroyed film. How did he get these?”

“They seem, by the Professor and Professora's estimations, to have been made at a range of over ten miles. And they said, they SAID,” his voice growing higher and louder, “that the pictures couldn't have been made at all if the Cetagandans hadn't hit us with a baby bomb.”

“A baby bomb?”

“Yes, a tiny one as far as nuclear missiles go, but there was incendiary bombing, high explosives, prior to the nuclear device. The city was set on flame, then destroyed by bombing with conventional weapons. There must have been extremely hot bombs, hundreds of thousands, perhaps, to fuse the city into the glass ruins there today. Then the nuclear bomb, clearly redundant, but made especially dirty with long-acting isotopes, to be the cherry on the top of a very dirty sundae.”

Both men gazed at the rest of the display on the dark,sleek, ultra-modern desk. 

Another way, Miles thought, that Gregor distinguished himself from all crusty old Emperors, was to decorate his offices and private residence with the most up to the minute, even radical, designs in furniture. Miles liked all the old furniture in Vorkosigan house better. Most people in the city felt the same, which was why the few modern designers were ecstatic over the Emperor's approval. The Emperor's new metal and black acrylic visitor chairs looked better than they felt. The seat and back were padded, but the arms weren't. The sled type design meant that they bounced a little with each movement of the visitor. It was probably a subtle attempt to make people want to leave without staying too long, a good thing for a man whose appointments were made at ten minute intervals.

The unknown photographer must have been a genius. He had whipped out picture after picture of the fleeing citizens of Vorkosigan Vashnoi: grandfathers pulling carts, women running with children at both hips, wheelbarrows with ancient women piled into them. Young boys the ages of the two with the apple carried bundles as big as themselves. One child—and it was now clear they were the same boys—helped the other reposition his pack. Clothing was spilling out of it. Two young women had turned to face the flame, hands held to their mouths. An archaic truck bounced over ruts, its bed crammed with more children and withered geriatrics. All of these were looking back to the city. A girl was standing up and pointing. She was holding her kitten under the other arm, and struggling to hold her hat in her fist. She was wearing a polka-dotted skirt which was clearly too big for her and a coat which was too small. Light hair streamed in front of her face.

“Wait, I thought this was a surprise attack. How did any anyone at all make it out?”

Miles pulled two final photographs from inside his gray suit. 

“I think this may explain it.”

A large Barrayaran countrywoman stood next to a Cetagandan ghem-soldier. He was in full face paint, and his grin matched the woman's. The wedding dress strained across the woman's abdomen, and—there was the wedding veil, set on her head. One last photograph—the same woman, with a child about a year's age, had her head out of the window of the truck, face screwed up, apparently yelling at the person behind the camera.

Gregor touched the pictures, moving them slightly apart with the type of a stylus. He bent over them to peruse some detail, dark hair—now wait, there, just at each temple was a small patch of gray. Miles was admittedly cheered by this. His sire was getting old. Due to his chronic pain and the stress of his osteoarthritis, Miles, five years younger than Gregor, had had graying hair for years. He kept his eyes still and for once stopped eating his fingers. He'd had the better part of a week to review these images, after all. 

At last Gregor sat back in his chair, and picked up his coffee. By now it was cold, and he put it down again, grimacing. Miles popped quickly over to the warming pot and poured two more for them.

“The Cetagandan warned his woman?”

“His wife. You can see that they married when she was pregnant. That he cared enough to marry her must have meant he cared about the child. I think that when the Cetas themselves had to evacuate, this one must have come to warn his wife. You can see that many of the people in the truck are those in the other pictures. I'm not sure how many people got out. I think this group is all from the same neighborhood. I even wonder whether the woman remarried the photographer. That last one looks like true love to me.” The one with the agitated woman yelling out the truck window. “That would explain why the photos ended up in the hill village, but no one knew about them. The couple wouldn't have wanted anyone to see this record soon. And then it was lost altogether.”

Miles thought grimly about some of his grandfather's more horrible forms of psychological warfare. Half-Cetagandan infants had been killed and their bodies exposed for the soldiers to see. This woman had a legal husband, which meant a legitimate child. Presumably even the General would have respected such a child. “What are you going to do with them?” This question had been the most stressful for him. You couldn't burn such a remarkable collection, even if you could hardly bear to look at them.

"I know what I'd like to do with them.” Gregor got up, carrying his cup with him, to peer out the long windows at the city below. It was a beautiful morning in early spring. The sky was dark blue. Wind snapped the flags and spurred the river into small waves. Only since visiting Earth had Miles been aware that Barrayar's sun was smaller and weaker than Earth's golden one. He could call back that color now if he wanted to. The Firsters had been extremely lucky to be rewarded a planet as near perfect as this one. Too bad it was also attractive to other races like the Cetagandans.

Gregor continued with his back to Miles.

“I'd like to send them to Komarr, and run them around that news banner they've got in the main square of Solstice. Right across from the memorial. I know the Massacre was horrible; no one married to Laisa could forget that, but the Komarrans have such damned selective memories. They lost two hundred, innocents surely, but there are twenty anonymous men in that one mass grave by itself. At least the Komarrans could put names to their lost, and mourn them. We had the funeral pyre, but don't know who the death offering was burned for.

He returned to Miles. 

“I might get a Komarran expert”— “Duv” they both said. 

“Yes, I suppose it will have to be Duv. There truly is no one else, and if there were anybody else, it would go to him, anyway, because he would have seniority.” 

“Can I come too?” Miles said quickly, aware of how he sounded, a kid pestering two big brothers to let him share their adventure. He pushed on. “I found this, after all. And this is my city. I own it outright. Grandfather gave it to me in his will, along with all the other radioactive acreage. I might as well get something out of it.”

Gregor rubbed his nose, smiling for the first time today. "Yes, and you're my Auditor on the spot, aren't you? How about”—

Miles started to protest, then realized he'd been given exactly what he wanted.

—Gregor said, “you working this up for me?”

00000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am extremely grateful for Pinterest sites for inspiration art for this piece:
> 
> Diane Coffman for “Vorkosigan's World” This site contains the picture of atomsite
> 
> Gwynne Powell for “Views of Old Barrayar” and “Vorbarr Sultana”
> 
> Meriian Oliver Weymouth- Barrayaran Women's Clothing, “Barrayar Dreaming”


	2. City of Glass and Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duv Galeni has been asked to help Miles with the Vorkosigan Vashnoi project.

Miles had corralled Duv Galeni into this appointment, not telling him what it was about. It was just like Miles to think he could command anyone, or maybe he forgot that Duv already had a heavy load, as ImpSec head of Komarran Affairs. There had been some kerfluffle today about one of the trade fleets diverted to a different landing field than had been planned, just because the Barrayaran escorts had heard rumors about a bomb scare.

It would cost more money to shift their products to markets now, and that was the itch he'd been stuck with. The trade fleets were always annoyingly prickly about their Barrayaran escorts. He didn't want to be here—all he wanted was to get home to Delia, collapse on his bed in her warm arms, and let his children jump on him.

When he arrived at Vorkosigan House after work, he was met not only by Miles, but by Professora Helen Vorthys as well. This put a curious spin on things. She looked bright-eyed, not fatigued in the evening, but excited. 

Dr.Vorthys put a scholar's mark on her clothing. Everything she wore had large pockets on the sides, including the subtle green and brown skirt she was wearing today, although they didn't spoil the line of the skirt. She carried notebook and pens, and sometimes small books, with her at all times. “I can't miss any opportunity to write down an idea.” It was charmingly like her husband, with his always bulging pockets.

His relationship with Miles, and ALL the Vorkosigans, was strained at times, but he'd never had anything but respect for the Professora and happiness at learning from her. What was Miles about now, inveigling her in some scheme?

“Duv, hi, come on in, sit, sit.” Miles had staged his meeting not at a business table, but in one of the parlors with a fire built. Duv had talked to Cordelia about seeing open fires on Barrayar. For both dome-raised citizens, fire within the habitat was a Class One emergency. Even after you quit thinking of it as an emergency—Beta was never going to have trees, and Komarr might get them in five hundred years. To both, the idea of burning wood for its heat value would never stop being a wonder. Plus, on Komarr, burning something meant taking precious oxygen out of the atmosphere.

But they were cozy. It was spring, warmer in the day, still cool enough at night that flames were pleasant. 

Miles offered coffee, wine, brandy—he must really want something, thought Duv. There was not even a suggestion of that foul maple mead the Vorkosigan District supplied in quantity. Nothing he'd drunk had ever been nastier, even on the one occasion he'd had ouzo with Simon Illyan. He chose coffee. Even if he had trouble sleeping later on, it was best to be well awake for this. 

Miles had also put out a selection of little sandwiches and nibbles from his cook, the acknowledged best in the city. Among other things, there were small red mildly fishy smelling slices on an bun, anchored with cream cheese and red onion. Also making an appearance were her excellent club sandwiches layered with bacon, turkey, ham (all vat, of course), tomato, lettuce, mayonnaise—very nice mayonnaise. The bread was newly made and toasted to perfection. She'd also put out beautifully carved pieces of fruit, glowing with perfection, and her signature pastries. 

Duv forgave Miles a little. He wondered, though, who had reminded Miles that people needed to eat.

“I had the most extraordinary set of photographs given to me a week ago,” said Miles, starting the conversation abruptly as they were still nibbling. “They're historical black and white photographs taken with,” and he nodded to the Professora, “a small box camera. It may have been as small as two and a half by four inches. I didn't know anything about photography, so I brought them to the Professora.”

Professora Vorthys smiled at Duv and shook her head at Miles. He had placed her in the most comfortable chair at the head of the table, and settled himself across from Duv.

“Miles, you get yourself into such trouble when you try to bluff someone. Tell him the truth.” She nodded firmly.

Miles frowned, not used to criticism from Ekaterin's pleasant aunt. He'd never sat a class with her, as Duv had. Her clear and often sarcastic insights dropped onto their targets like pinpoint bombs.

Miles straightened up in his chair. Duv noted that, without appearing to be out of proportion, the chair had been modified for Miles. 

“I was coming to that.” He started biting his fingernails and fidgeting. 

“Duv, we found—I was given—photographs of Vorkosigan Vashnoi. Just before and—during—its destruction.” Miles voice had gone wandering off at the last of the sentence, like a child seeing ghosts.

Duv was dubious. “During its destruction? That couldn't have been possible! Where did you get such a thing?”

Without answering, Miles slid black and white photos over to him. The first set showed heart-breaking normal scenes of a feudal-era city, slices of life when an apple was the height of treasure to two little boys, and a little girl played quietly with a kitten. His trained eye didn't miss the backgrounds, either. This photographer had, without benefit of zoom lenses, flash lighting, or indeed anything to stop down the light, taken beautiful pictures using the natural light of the city. The boys at the water-pump had been back-lit by the white stone wall behind them. The old women on the stoop sat in a pool of warm afternoon sun, holding the baby and talking quietly.

Next Miles silently handed over more uncomfortable pictures—ghem soldiers kicking a man, to death, according to the careful notes on the back. A ghastly mass grave with bodies tossed in. Then the terrible exodus out of the city, people racing away from their homes. A mushroom cloud.

“How—the—hell—did these survive a nuclear bombing?”

Professora Vorthys gave him the reasoning the Professor of Arts had come up with—the distance from the bomb, its relative weakness as a nuclear weapon.

“So you see, Duv, that we suddenly have documentation of a crucial time in the Cetagandan war. We, Gregor and I, want to do justice to this, and have them appropriately exhibited.”

But why do you need me, if you have the Professora?” Duv was baffled. This was a major find, but his role in it was unclear.

The Professora sighed again. “Miles, please show him ALL the pictures, and tell the man why he's here.”

To Duv's horror, a dozen or so pornographic pictures were then laid in front of him. He knew all the modesty of the back-country, and these poses must have been truly humiliating for the girls and whoever loved them. In the Cetagandan war women had no choices, he was aware, but he'd never seen documentation before. In their own way, they were as explosive as the nuclear device.

Miles didn't say anything else, and looked to the Professora. She looked down at the table, studying its blank surface.

“Miles...”

“Okay, Duv, but only because I can't think of any other way to say it. We regret, everyone regrets very badly, what happened at Soltice, but—hold on!”

“But there were only two hundred Martyrs there, and hundreds of thousands at Vorkosigan Vashnoi. And this is the very first documentation of that massive, genocidal, destruction, the obliteration of an occupied city, a capital city. That's what you were trying not to say, wasn't it.”

Duv spoke kindly. He was trying for kindly, anyway. He'd finally realized, great brain that he was, that he hadn't been invited here for any historical prowess of his own, but because he was the go-to person for anything with a Komarran angle. It might as well be tattooed on his forehead. He felt tiredness in his face, and realized Miles was looking tired and drawn as well.

“Yes.”

The next lines were written on their faces without words being necessary.  
“You let them in on us.”  
“You martyred our innocent. MY AUNT.”  
“You martyred thousands more of ours. MY DISTRICT.”

Duv picked up the photographs again. “How did any of them get out? At all?”

Miles picked up the wedding picture, and the woman in the truck yelling at the photographer and went over his theories. 

Duv started nodding, and then, as the Professora came into her own strength, they discussed what might have been seen in the two pictures which were almost white.

“I think these are the incendiaries,” said the Professora, using a hand-lens to highlight some little lines neither Miles or Gregor had noticed.

“Mm. Uh-huh, and then the vitrification bombs here...”

“And this isn't completely white, I think we're seeing the dust from the incendiaries and explosives”—this was an interesting problem.

“Have you ever been there? Either of you?” Miles demanded, and Duv and the Professora both jumped.“Because if you haven't, I suggest, no, I insist that you go there. You historians always go on about first-hand experiences, and you haven't even looked at the city.”

He was right, thought Duv. He'd gotten back into the intellectual groove as soon as possible, trying to objectify horror.

“Let me let you good professors say goodnight,” said Miles, and ImpSec Commodore Galeni one more time had to brace himself against striking the little man. How could such a small person cause the most out-sized reactions? They both did, Miles and Mark...this was ridiculous. He WAS a professor, and being given a ground-floor look at what would be a major exhibition excited him. It was a tremendous honor. 

Honor. That word had been spat back and forth between two planets for decades. Miles was right. The Komarrans needed to look at the destruction wrought by their planet's decision to appease Eta Ceta.

“Good night. Let me know when you want to take us to Vorkosigan Vashnoi. I do need to see it.”

Two days later, after a storm system had cleared out, Miles, Duv, Professora Vorthys, and, although Duv didn't expect it, Ekaterin, all piled into the light-flier capably piloted by Miles' armsman. Miles murmured quiet course corrections to the armsman, then explained to his guests, “We've got both radiation counters and dosimeters with us. I'm going to take us as low as we safely can.”

As they swooped over the city, Ekaterin began to take pictures. Ah ha! Not just a beautiful, dutiful wife—okay, wife, mother, master gardener, landscape designer. 

She glanced up and gave Duv a shy smile. “I'm always going out to see gardens, and then I find I can't sketch them from memory like I want to. Miles got me these cameras for my last birthday.”

There was almost nothing left. Duv was surprised that even a few stumpy towers were standing at one end of the city. It must have been the city wall, triply reenforced with stone, brick, and metal, at a height of three or four meters. Now they were not much more than a meter high.

Miles murmured again to the armsman. What was his name? They been introduced. He didn't treat servants like furniture. What was wrong with him? Four mental tons of stress, that was it. He was being asked to look at the site of a Barrayaran genocide, as a human being, an Imp-Sec officer, a Komarran, and a historian. But he was built for stress and diplomacy. Say something, anything.

“Do we knew where they left the city?”

Miles nodded. “They were getting away to the hills as fast as they could. From some background analysis, (another nod to the Professora), we think they went out that gate.” More stumpy ruins.

Miles pulled up a map on the comconsole. “We're right here. This is the overlay view of the city. It was well mapped and drawn—was there for centuries, after all.” Bitterness was in Miles' voice, and Duv knew it was completely justified. He would never forgive anyone who destroyed a dome, much less the capital dome of Soltice. On the overlay view, a line was traced with a cursor through the ruins of streets, and then further out in the countryside.

“This is the site for the last picture,” Miles said. “I think they had to stop for something, a minor breakdown with the truck, stuck in a rut, anything, and he got out and shot that one. That's why she was yelling at him. Get back in here you—ninny-hammer!”  
'Ninny-hammer?' Duv mouthed to Ekaterin, amused.  
“Yes. Helen Natalia has decided to use all the archaic slang words she can find. For the last two weeks it was Shakespeare.”  
“Verily, thou art naught but a roguish reeling-ripe skainsmate!” Duv quoted, and Ekaterin laughed. 

“I don't think she found that one. This week it's another historical period—Regency England.”

“Oh, I know Regency. We had to read...” Duv trailed off, realizing that he didn't want to admit he'd taken an elective course in romantic novels.

Miles flicked them both a glare, but a half-wattage one.

“We can get out when Roic lands the flier. We're on the right side of the winds today, but keep your counters and dosimeters close.”

The radiation counters didn't go over the background crackles, and didn't beep out any warnings. It was sunny and warm, and he thought irrationally, “it should be dark and stormy. Frightening weather. Not this prettiness.”

The ground was gray and powdery; the dust puffed up around their feet. He didn't want to think what, or who, might have been pulverized to the smoke-like air he was inhaling. 

Miles picked up a rock and handed it to him. It was green, glittering, beautiful. 

“It's called atomsite. It's formed from the fusion of several types of rocks.”

He stared directly at Duv, his normally jitteriness stilled. “It formed when the heat of the explosion was high enough to melt stone." He didn't have to say, “and the humans were all dead before the stones were set on fire.”

He knew the new exhibit had to start with the green glass stone. The beautiful color of grass, a monstrosity. Now his mind was revolving ways to get as intense an experience as he could. He wanted to absorb this genocide, immerse himself in it so he could mine those emotions for his papers.

“Can I come in again and walk the city in a radiation suit?” 

“No. There's too much ground-clutter. Rocks, some wires, lots of things to trip on, and then where's your protection if you tear the suit?”

“Space armor would do.”

“You want to put on space armor? For an exhibit?” Miles seemed shocked.

He'd regained some pride. Some of his own honor. 

“Of course. You reminded me that primary sources are the best, and I'd like to come here at least once more.”

“I'll think about it. I'll have to send someone here with you, and I don't know whether I want to put my men at risk. But it's good of you to offer.”

They flew back to Vorbarr Sultana in the darkening sky. The stars were coming out. He sat still, thinking.

“Aunt Rebecca, I've mourned you all my life. I hated the monster who killed you, then admired him enough to join him. I wanted to use my position for Komarr's good, to ease the pain from our rulers. But I forgot about his pain. Their pain. I saw a city of glass today where sad little girls were abused by soldiers, and then died in an atomic furnace. Komarr can't hide from the truth. I honor you. But we need to face the time when we acted without honor.”

He would tear as much time away from ImpSec as he could to help mount this exhibition. It would take at least six months to create, but it would be outstanding, because he did careful, meticulous work. And it would help his people grow up, grow away from the horrors of those terrible days and years. He was a man, a professor, an ImpSec Commodore, a Barrayaran subject, a Komarran—ex-terrorist Komarran. 

He couldn't wait to take the exhibition home.


	3. Interlude--Birth of a Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having assembled a team from both Barrayar and Komarr, Duv is concerned that they won't work well together.  
> Miles has a plan.

Duv Galeni leaned back in his chair and stretched his back. Twenty-two hundred, dear Lord. Miles was waiting a bit impatiently at the other end of the comconsole. For the last week he hadn't seen the sun, either in the morning or evening. If his hours kept running longer and longer, he was going to ask Allegre if he couldn't move some full-spectrum lights into his office, or put up a wall vid with some outside pictures. They had plenty of cameras mounted on Cockroach Central. Why couldn't he have one piped in from the front of the building, looking out on the city? At least Miles and Gregor had thought ahead and were giving him leave hours rather than pay. If he ever got to take any leave.

“So, how's the exhibit going so far?”

Duv didn't wonder out loud about children who dug up their seeds every day to see if they had sprouted. Cordelia had told him that about Miles, and he had always thought the man had outgrown it.

“It's a bit early. I've assembled a preliminary team. On the Komarran side, I've messaged Dr. Enzo. That's Dr. Banastas Enzo, Professor and Chair, Department of History, Solstice University. He'll be the team leader on Komarr. He's disappointed that they can't have the original artifacts, of course, but he's sending an assistant to study them. Dr. Alessia Collier, Assistant Professor in history, Solstice University, with special studies in women's issues. Then from UVS, besides the Professora, we've got Dr. Anton Pasrill, who's a clinical adjunct professor in history, with a concentration in the Cetagandan wars. Dr. Vorthys suggested him, and he's delighted to come. He's up for assistant professor after this project, and this should really push him to the top." 

Miles was excited about this. Duv was always a good organizer. He'd have considered Duv anyway, for such a thing, even if he hadn't had the Komarran connections. Man and woman each from Barrayar and Komarr. Surely they could find some common ground. “That's brilliant! Get a woman interested from the Komarran side, and that should help. Do you know when she can come?”

Seeds, do not pull up, Duv told himself again. He said, “She got the assignment only yesterday. It will take her some time to clear out her schedule there, make arrangements for the semester, then she'll come. I would never have had the audacity to ask for a team member for a whole semester, but Dr. Enzo suggested it. It will make the exhibit so much easier. We can get Komarran input all the way along.”

He reached for a cup of coffee, then changed his mind. It was well past time for coffee. Water would be better. He had a container of water around here—yes, there it was, behind the stack of papers he would have to shove off til tomorrow. At least he'd convinced Allegre that the long hours of the project entitled him to bring a coffee maker into his office. This one held a cache of beans which would automatically grind a cup at a time, then brew it quickly, so it didn't lose any flavor. 

“ It will still be slow to get her ideas back to Dr. Enzo.The whole nexus is waiting for an instantaneous communicator.”

Miles considered the problem. He didn't want Duv discouraged so early on. “Why don't you try a trick I've used before? Everyone writes from their own end at the same time, conveying information that way. Even if you have to back and fill, that could work.”

Duv frowned. “Wasn't that in a story somewhere? About a first contact. They decided that rather than questions from one side at a time, they'd each do a data dump and keep going, answering questions along the way. That worked because they didn't need precise answers. It won't work here.”(1)

Miles shrugged. Trust Duv to remember every thing he'd ever read, even as a child. It had been worth a try. 

Duv saw enviously that Miles was messaging from home, and had changed to informal clothes. Another of the ubiquitous black and white kittens was sitting in Miles' lap. 

His fatigue set in and he had to cover a yawn. 

“The problem I have is trying to get all these people working together. In ImpSec, you can just point at them”—

“I want three volunteers, you, you, you,” Miles broke in. He knew the drill.

“Yeah. But these are busy people, and it's such a peculiar task force. So much bad feeling from each side. Delia made a good point yesterday—she wondered whether Komarrans would think the Massacre was in reprisal for the Vashnoi bombing. They might.”

“You sound discouraged. I was going to help you, go over things at the end of every week, but if you think it would be better, I can come over every day.”

Duv suppressed a shudder at the idea of the manic Miles in his office every day.

“Thanks, but you don't have to babysit so much. I'll keep them on track.”

There was silence from the other end of the line. Duv closed his eyes.

Miles considered the problem. He'd actually had part of the solution, when he forged new units together in the Dendariis. "I've got it.”

“Mmm?”

“What you need is jokes!”

“Jokes? Are you going to send a comedian?”

“No, no, these are jokes you write yourselves.”

“More work." Duv sat up, letting go of his dignity for a moment. “Miles, I'm sure you will come up with good ideas, but I need to go home. I'm asleep on my feet here.”

Miles ignored him. "Don't leave just yet. It will be a contest. Each side will write a joke, about Barrayarans and Komarrans—from their own sides. Everyone gets to laugh at themselves. It will loosen up the group. You can have daily, no, weekly, prizes. Vorkosigan district wine is excellent, and I'll send”—

“No maple mead!”

“Of course not.” Why did everyone keep picking on him about the mead? Maple mean was strong, sure, but not as bad as everyone else seemed to think. He might have been prejudiced because it was the first alcoholic drink he'd ever had, ten years old and at a District party when he sampled a half-empty cup his father had left sitting out. “And maybe we can get a jeweler to make little pins or badges from the Komarran side. I found a beautiful locket for Ekaterin. But it can be anything nice, not very expensive.” 

000000

Duv was dubious, but he explained the rules to his team. Camaraderie was the goal. Each may send jokes located on the other planet, or for any planet in the nexus, as long as it's a joke on themselves or third parties. It's not necessary to keep it clean.

1st set  
Komarrans going through customs on Vorbarr Sultana—one page cartoon, “Now where do you keep the breath masks?”

2nd. Barrayarans arrested on Komarr with a chain saw—"Just trying to open the window, Judge!"

3rd. Komarran on Vorbarr Sultana—“we heard you do human sacrifices.”  
Barrayaran, “yeah, but it's all vat meat these days.”  


4th. Barrayaran on Komarr trying to enter system with soap and scrubbing brush—one page cartoons

“But you said they were Bubble-cars!”)

5th. (disqualified)  
Komarran tourist on Barrayar—“WhoreRutyer? ooh, you said VOR, Lady Donna.”

Count Dono, nee Lady Donna, said he'd suggested the joke to the Komarrans.  
It was actually Byerly, but Dono took the heat for him to keep all his Vorrutyer relatives smoothed over.

This was judged as against Barrayar, rather than Komarr, and the author had to write another one.

5th.(replaced)  
Komarran calling the hotel concierge--”Can you please turn off that light? It's too bright in here.”  
Barryaran concierge, “I'm sorry, ma'am, that's the moon.”

6th. Hysterical Komarran calling up the emergency services.  
“They're setting off bombs! Where's the nearest shelter?”  
Barrayaran, “Sorry, sir, it's just the Emperor's Birthday Party.”

7th. (disqualified) Barrayaran on Komarr:  
“whadya mean I can't let my dog drink in the pond?”  
“Sorry, sir, but it's a water supply. And how'd you get a dog in here, anyway?”  
“Oh, that's easy, I just listed him as my brother.”

Laughter, but decided to leave out as Barrayarans might revolt.

7th. (replaced) Barrayaran on Soltice, at the pond, with fishing gear, “whatya mean I can't go fishing?”  
One page cartoon.

8th. Barrayaran, with fishing gear, “I heard you had good fission here!”

9th.Cartoon, Bewildered Barrayarans on Beta, obviously nude but holding strategically placed suitcases. “But we were just trying to fit in, officer!”

10th.

Komarran on Jackson's Whole,  
Woman (in Komarran skirts), holding a container, “I want three clones of my husband.”  
“Very good ma'am.”  
“And I want them ready for my party on Saturday.”

11th.

Komarran female cat to male (presumably) Betan cat, very haughty,  
“Where I come from, we don't ask anyone to visit the sandbox!”

12th.

Betan hermaphrodite to self in mirror:  
“I love you and I want to have your babies!” 

Unfilled Prompt

A Komarran, a Barrayaran, and a Betan walk into a genetics clinic...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1.) Also, the first contact story is out there but I can't remember the author.  
> 2/25/15 Daniel has pointed the "just keep talking" contact story out to me--it's by Isaac Asimov, "My Son, the Physicist," and the link is  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Son,_the_Physicist  
> See Daniel's comment below
> 
> Thanks to Magister+Tekton who suggested that the Komarrans might think the Massacre was a reprisal for the destruction of the city.
> 
>  
> 
> The prompt about the genetic clinic joke is out there too.
> 
> AFAIK, the jokes here are all mine. If you're the original author, point me to it, and I'll be happy to give you credit.


	4. Death in the Mud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Miles' expedition arrives at Vorkosigan Vashnoi, they discover that not all the city was obliterated. What remains--is remains.

The high-capacity lightflier bobbled as Roic tried to land it. He had to circle Vorkosigan Surleau twice. Miles had originally planned to head back to Vorbarr Sultana, but the exhibition team was in too much shock. They were all crying or trying not to vomit, or both. He'd pulled off the helmet of his space armor as soon as the lightflier left Vorkoigan Vashnoi, and signaled the team to do so. One of the worst things about throwing up in space armor, besides it never smelling right again, even when repairs said it was clean, was that you stood a chance of choking. Not quite as much on the ground as at zero gravity, but still.

Miles thought he'd seen all of the ruined city before, especially since finding the photographs of its destruction and holding the green atomsite, but today was more terrible than all. Not all the deaths had been obliterated in the blast and fires. Bodies were scattered amidst a higher part of rubble, covered in dried mud, preserved there by some process. Two or three dozen, he thought, and his battle-hardened mind nagged at him. A few years ago he could have quickly counted casualties in his mind. Although there were a few, very few, times when the Dendariis had lost this many as once. Maybe three times, he thought, derailing his mind away from today's horrors. 

Duv was the first to get his mind and body back under control.

“Did you plan for that little 'surprise' today” Did you know what we would find?”  
His voice wasn't especially loud, but it was vibrating with hostility.

Miles was ready to take on the guy, even though outweighed twice by him. “No, I didn't save it for you to 'discover.'” His own voice was filled with rage. Duv was about to become his innocent target just for being Komarran, but he pulled back from scalding replies. “The radiation used to be really bad on that side, but it's washed away faster due to being closer to the mountain rain outflows. I've never landed there before.”

He grimaced. “That's one for your score book. If you hadn't talked me into the space-armored walk, we'd never had found these.”

The lightflier's other occupants had all piled out, and Miles instructed them to peel the armor if they were going to vomit. Roic escaped the lightflier last, stripping off the armor, his big solid face white and his gait unsteady. Miles turned to him, the little man trying to hold up the big broad armsman.

“”m sorry I couldn't land d'thing. Dust or sumtin in my eye.” Miles had noted before that Roic's accent reverted to pure Hassadar when he was under great stress.

“No, you were feeling the same as all of us. It's okay. You didn't crash.”

With that faint praise, Miles raced away to the vacation home. He yelled to the caretakers coming out to greet him. 

“Towels. Dry clothes. Tea. No food. Take the women to the pink bathroom, and let them lie down in the next two bedrooms if they want to. Duv, take the bedroom next to the green bath, and Anton and Roic two doors down.”

The very young and pale Dr. Alessia Collier was escorted by a grim Professora. In spite of everything Miles was cheered by that. Barrayaran and Komarran bonding against a shared ordeal. 

An hour later the team members assembled wanly around a table in the small breakfast nook. Those who needed fresh clothes had been outfitted with the motley supplies left behind by lake visitors. Miles himself had taken one of his father's loud tropical shirts. He'd given them to his da almost every other year until he went to the military academy. This one, like all the others, was much too big, but he pulled it around him like a robe. It was comforting.

When had he started valuing comfort? Since marrying Ekaterin, surely. He'd been able to sleep on bare ground for six weeks, at Marilac. How many years ago? He shook his mind. He was just trying to resist thinking about today.

The housekeeper had assembled the tea requested, as well as coffee. She'd also put out some fresh rolls, and small muffins with a yeasty aroma. In spite of what he'd said, Miles offered the baked goods to his guests, and the UVS scholar, Duv, and he took some. The women shook their heads and poured out more tea. Duv stared out the window at not much, and Miles found himself crumbling a roll without eating it. The very young Dr. Anton Pasrill was eating his. 

Miles had spent the better part of his hour researching the appalling mud-embedded corpses they'd seen. Vorkosigan Vashnoi had initially been a walled city, with heavy walls and interior chambers, as well as, possibly, the watchkeepers' rooms or small prison cells. The top of the wall had been shattered, but not the lower or underground levels.

“Something similar happened at an Earth city called Pompeii. There was a huge volcano, and it buried the population in ashes. It wasn't rediscovered for centuries. They used to think it was the pyroclastic mud that killed them, but it turned out to be the extraordinary heat. They actually...burned to death before they were covered. I don't know the exact mechanism here, but from the drawn-up postures it does look like fire. Duv, can we find out—we need to find out for sure.”

Duv was already writing down a list of questions. “I'll get the geology and volcano people on this. They can work it up.”

The young Komarran professor said shakily, “How did they survive the nuclear blast? I thought it would instantaneously vaporize a city?”

Miles was grim-faced as he handed over newly printed flimsies.

“I did too. I think everyone did. There has never been any reason to explore it, with the radiation hazards, but I expect I'll see a lot more requests now.”

They perused the pictures taken by the lightflier's vid camera, and those they'd taken on the ground. Miles congratulated himself silently for increasing the numbers of both aerial and ground recording devices. The Professora hadn't been able to climb over the largest broken stones, so she'd voice-recorded everything she could walk over. 

“I'm very glad you used the throat device—we need someone's recordings, not only our eyes and cameras.”

“Yes,” she said. “I've had to do that at other sites since I'm more breakable these days, and I find it's very helpful. I can verify exactly what I'm seeing, while I'm on site, without the risk of relying on my visual witness later. We ran a training exercise once at the University, with a series of small visual clips—two people arguing in the street while what looked like a thief running past them. Singers and dancers who loudly took up the foreground while a man in a bear suit walked across the stage behind them. No one did very well. I was amazed at my own mistakes. I even got clothing colors wrong. I mixed some up. It was very disappointing." She sounded annoyed with herself.

“For example,” she turned to Dr. Pasrill, “How many corpses were there under that leaning wall?”

Anton—they were going to be on first name basis, Miles decided, except the Professora,—swallowed his bit of roll, and said, “seven?” I was looking at the dog and the baby part of the time.”

“Exactly,” she said. “There were ten, including the baby and the dog. I think most of them were male; there seem to be the shadow of weapons next to them. The person next to the baby is probably a female. Two other women were wearing jewelry. We'll see more when we get archeology in. These were only recently eroded away, I'd say. Maybe that storm a few days ago. There are fifteen more scattered around. If we hadn't come on them now, they might have completely disappeared.”

“Don't forget they'd have to work in armor,” Miles said.

“It will be worth it,” said Duv, coming back from contemplating the window. "I can't think of any other historical excavations more important.”

Turning to Miles he said, “This may affect the timing of the exhibit. Audiences will want to see this, and you might get vandals coming by.”

“They'd be entitled to any radiation sickness they picked up,” said Miles viciously. “Looters at Vorkosigan Vashnoi, they deserve”—

“Duv. Miles.” The Professora's voice was firm. “Don't start quarreling. At this time the five of us, plus the staff here, are the only ones who know. No leaks will come from us, I'm sure. And you can control your own caretakers. We'll have to lock up our papers.”

Duv cut in. “We'll mark the territory. It's highly radioactive in some places. If they still to choose to walk over it, well...”

He exchanged a savage scowl with Miles before going on.

“I'll have to tell Allegre that I need a dedicated computer of my own, not linked to ImpSec HQ. Miles, can you have an ImpSec rated security system put on your personal one?”

“It's been there for years. And nothing is connected to ImpSec in any way. (ever since I accidentally recorded you raking me over the coals about Laisa, and gave Haroche a bomb to throw at you, he thought.)

“I'm not going to keep this from Ekaterin,” he said. “I can't.”

“I'll have to tell Delia, too,” said Duv.

Alessia Collier spoke up for the first time, her voice irritable. That was probably the result of her shock, he thought.  
“I know we've all been shaken up, but everyone has loved ones. If we tell them that the exhibition is emotionally stressful, but don't give them any details, we can probably pull it off. I don't have a partner now, in any case.”

Anton chipped in. “I've been to some Cetagandan sites before, and seen the leftovers of atrocities. I can handle putting a lid on this.”

“But we have to get a research team down here immediately,” said Miles. “If we have another big storm, it may wash it all away.” He was suddenly very worried. Vorkosigan Vashnoi had survived in its tomb almost a hundred years, and he couldn't let it be washed away now. 

Duv and the Professora spoke at the same time. “We can do it.”

Duv continued. “I've got an unlimited budget for this. I can get an archeology team up here in a few days, but I can get a construction crew tomorrow. They can start prepping the site by covering it with a tarp. Sooner. You used to sail on the Lake, didn't you?”

“Still do, every chance I can get—the sails! We'll take every sail and every tent stake, and cover it all up the best we can. We'll get a crew out of Hassadar—tomorrow, I guess. It's getting dark now.”

Roic spoke up. “If you want me to go, mi'lord, I can fly back to Hassadar tonight. I dunno who'da talk to, though.”

“I'll send you down there tomorrow morning. I can get in touch with—I'm not sure. Tsipis is there. I'll call him tonight. I'll call him right now. If I did fly down there I could make sure he understands the need for discretion, for secrecy. By god, we COULD get a crew in tomorrow! Where are we going to put them? What are they going to eat? If there was one thing the Dendariis taught me was that quartermasters are just as important as pilots. Maybe more so. A pilot can be substituted at the last minute, but a good quartermaster understands your needs, and, and”—he'd gotten up from the table and was pacing around faster and faster.

“Miles!” said Duv. If this project left him sane after dealing with Mad Miles, he doubted any assignment would faze him. He had to think of some way of snapping him out of these states, short of bouncing the little guy's head off the wall, when the hyperactivity started to take over. It was tempting—no. Miles was an Imperial Auditor. He'd probably be disappeared before an hour had gone by. The man hadn't stopped, didn't seem to have heard him. Tranquilizer darts? Would they affect his seizures?

“Portakabins, do they come with the contractors? How will we be sure we're not shitting over more areas which have to be dug out, which are covering corpses? No, they're portable, they'll take everything back with them. But we do have to worry about cooking grease and more trash. They've all got to have space-armor and—and where do we get it?” He was now pacing and biting his fingers at the same time.

“Miles!” He put himself in front of Miles, and took hold of his shoulders. Masterfully resisting the urge to shake, he pressed down. Miles looked up at him, having not seen anything since he started monologuing.

“Let me help. I'm supposed to be the lead coordinator, and I can get this done. You can put the call through to Tspis. Your caretakers can find the sails and stakes. Tell me what you need, and I'll order it. Unlimited budget, remember? I can get thing for you stat. Why don't you sit down and make a list.” It wasn't a suggestion.

Miles nodded and started writing. 

If his career with the mercenaries had taught him nothing else, Duv thought, Miles knows how to mastermind. He gathered up Anton with his eye—the man was now chatting up the woman caretaker, Miss—Dosie? Anton hadn't been idle, though.

“Doctor—Commodore Galeni—ahh, sir, Mrs. Dosie can get twenty men by mid-morning. I guess they've got huge families in the mountains”—Duv would have to teach the man a little hillfolk courtesy”—and she has a telephone, so she can reach the village speaker tonight. Wouldn't it be better to have the Count's own people? His liegemen?”

He was quite right. The small, strong hillmen would no more talk to outsiders than to Cetagandans. Duv started talking to Mrs. Dosie. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anton drift back to a plate of sandwiches. Ham, he thought. He'd gotten over his aversion to real meat years before. It was necessary to stoke the body, and not forget it. Duv finished his first sandwich just as Mr. Dosie came in, listened to his wife, nodded to him, took a packet of sandwiches she'd already wrapped, pulled on his coat, and left.

What a horrible day. But at least he had a plan. Plans were good. He sat down at the comconsole, and began to plan tomorrow.


	5. Collisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months into the Vorkosigan Vashnoi project, things start to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Vorkosigan is LMB'.

Three months into the Vorkosigan Vashnoi project things started to unravel.

After another of Ma Kosti's excellent lunches, Miles was thinking about taking a nap, when he was messaged by professora Vorthys. She appeared in the comconsole screen looking harassed. 

“I'd like to come over now. There are some problems with the site.”

He sat up straighter. “What's going on today? Is someone giving interviews?”

He would be very angry if anyone had. The exhibit was now much more complicated that he'd foreseen. He had three separate parties, no, four, at the site now. The original hillmen wouldn't get close to their own destroyed city, due to their fear about mutations, and they'd been reduced to no more than common labor at the base camp.

They prepared food, cleaned the site, including the portable toilets, and wrapped specimens for the scientists to process off-site. They'd built their own cabins, those for the scientists, and the processing rooms. They were never close to anything radioactive, but the fear was still there.

This was despite the fact that the subsistence farmers and herders were never going to get better jobs. Gregor, through Duv, was paying an absolute fortune to them. But the men were separated from their families and their farms, and even unlimited budgets couldn't dig up new plots and build onto their small houses. Attrition was always a problem.

Another conflict was between Gregor's troops and the Dendarii. Miles had pressed the mercenaries into service, to protect the site and remove specimens, since wearing the required space armor was like putting on a sweater for them. But the regular Barrayaran soldiers, guarding all the perimeters of the city in much lighter radiation suits, had, as he should have realized, still resented mercenaries. 

The Dendarii sneered at the Barrayarans who didn't want to enter the the work grounds even in armor, due to long-lasting fears of mutations. Words had been spoken. He would have removed all of the regular troops, except it would mean more Dendarii. Elli Quinn would have provided them gladly, but at a taxing price, and he didn't want to owe her more. The cabins needed to be reassigned to place them at farther distances.

The archeologists were quarreling with Anton and Alessia, and with the Dendariis, about removing specimens too quickly and not leaving them completely in situ. The historians, mindful of exhibition deadlines, needed specimens to bring to Vorbarr Sultana. The raw materials had to be transformed into exhibits, but the archeologists, cleared to use radiation suits at the digs as they were being trained in space armor, were very slow. They were a bit cavalier about their dosimeters, too. They wanted to excavate spoonful by spoonful, and could have happily stayed with such a big site for years.

Now the professora was telling him that the historians were quarreling. He would have beaten his head on his desk, except that if he kept doing that, he was going to get a permanent crease.

“What's going on with Anton and Alessia?”

“Alessia is here with me. Could we come over? I think it would be easier in person.”

It must be a class A emergency, then. The Professora, he, and Duv, had all been diverting their own work as much as possible, to keep the sites, plural, monitored. They still had to examine the other side of the city for artifacts and corpse removal, now that they knew to look for them. It had become much too large for one showing. Duv spent Mondays at Vorkosigan Vashnoi, Dr. Vothys spent Fridays, and he was there for one day during the mid week.

How had an emergency developed only three days since he'd been there last?

He brought his guests into a parlor now confiscated for the museum. The typical refreshments were offered, and this time Alessia took wine. She was never a drinker before, he thought.

“Can you bring me up to date, Dr. Collier?” he said, using her title to show his respect.

“It's all mine—it's not his—he won't help”—this rambling explanation threatened to dissolve into tears. The professora patted the younger woman's shoulder and said,

“Alessia, you need to start at the beginning. Tell Count Vorkosigan everything.  
Miles was glad that Ekaterin's aunt had not given him the weightier title of Imperial Auditor. Alessia gulped and started over.

“When I first came to the site, I was very excited. We hadn't uncovered the corpses then, of course. I got side-tracked by them, as anyone would, and didn't start my proper job until later.” She sniffed and he realized it was an angry sniff, not a sad one.

“So I helped Anton for some weeks, and then went back to the hillwomen. As I said, I was weeks late on talking to women. I thought perhaps I could find someone who knew the Cetagandan couple—Barrayaran and Cetagandan, but I was having trouble getting any answers. The professora said that I should take a copy of the wedding picture and cut out the man, then take the picture back into the hills again. I didn't realize they still hated Cetagandans so much.”

Part of the reason you're here, Miles thought a little grimly. We wanted Komarrans to understand the hell the Cetagandans gave us.

“The Cetagandan war ended only 84 years ago.”

Miles noted the only.

“So I thought the woman in the pictures would be, maybe, 101 if she were still alive, but I didn't think she was. The baby in the picture is about one, from the way she can stand up on the seat of the truck—and it took me WEEKS studying that one picture for every detail, anyway, I thought she might still be alive, only 85.”

He thought he knew the next. “You found out what a short lifespan women in the hills have, didn't you? A granddaughter would have been maybe, 67, if she married at seventeen, and they do. The great-granddaughters about 50. That's ancient, for many women here. Great-great granddaughters would be 30.”

She shuddered. “Body births—that is so disgusting. Dangerous. Talking about deaths from body birth; there are terrible death rates. That shouldn't happen to anyone. I'm not sure when I can write this up, but there needs to be a side of the exhibit, or maybe only another paper, about the women's lives. No wonder they forgot about that box.”

“Yes,”he said coldly. “We were cut off from the galaxy for hundreds of years. Then where we were rediscovered...” He bit down on his lip before he started blaming the Cetagandan war on this child.

She hadn't noticed. 

“But also”—she hesitated before him. He nodded at her to go on.  
“The trees! I knew there would be a lot of trees, a, the word 'forest' is not used on Komarr. No need to. I didn't even know what to call a clump of trees.”

She laughed a little hysterically.  
“I've been crawling around those hills for weeks, never seeing the sky, talking to every senior I could find. Riding real horses, and I can't tell you how hard that was to learn.”

Miles' mother always talked about the ordeal of her horse-riding trek with Bothari and five year old Gregor, keeping him hidden from Vordarian's men. She hated them. Miles didn't think the Komarrans would enjoy hearing about the horses, but they would be a romantic part of the exhibition's history, for Barrayarans. Piotr had cackled and said that the horses, one winter at least, served the army by being edible.

“I finally rescanned the writing on the back of the photograph with a hand-electron microscope, and built up the two names, atom by atom. It's labeled, 'Katya and Jal.' So I went back to the hills, asking for anyone whose ancestor was Katya. There are so many names...”

“Very popular name, yes.”

“I found her! Her name was Katya Dorosh, and she had a baby named Elsi. The grandbaby was Lubov. The day before yesterday I found the great-granddaughter—Oksana—she's still alive!”

“That's fantastic!” said Miles. “Great work!You can get an great article out all that, when you get done with our exhibit.” He stressed 'our exhibit' slightly.

Alessia nodded. “Thank you. I worked so hard in those trees.”

“But what's the problem then?”

The young woman's look turned angry.

“He stole my work!”

“What! Who?'

“Anton. I hate him.”

The professora patted her arm. “Just tell him how it happened.”'

“I had finally gotten the names off the photograph, as I said, and I got the father's name. The Cetagandan's name. It's Jal Peric. I told him because I was excited, and he congratulated me, and then the first leave day in Vorbarr Sultana that he had, he went to the Cetagandan embassy. He told me that he didn't expect anything of it, but he's lying. The embassy staff knew Jal Peric well. He was the first Cetagandan consul on Barrayar.  
And he's still alive!”

She gave another angry sniff. “Anton told me he'd messaged Peric then, and would wait for his reply. He stole everything from me!”

“Um?” He turned to the Professora, who nodded. “Alessia's article will be a major find, all by itself, but Anton is entitled to at least a short paragraph. He did take initiative for his side.”

“After I told him the names! We were eating out and I told him how damn hard I'd worked and he said he was so happy for me, and then he stole it. I haaate him!”

She slugged back her glass of wine, poured another and gulped it. Miles understood her academic frustration, and that had to be sorted out with Anton, but he was missing something.

Alessia turned back to the professora. “I want to go back to your house. I'm very tired. Thank you for listening, Count Vorkosigan. I know you can handle, as they say, “that snake in the grass.”And that's another thing I hate about Barrayar. You have snakes here!”

“Worms, Alessia,” said Professora Vorthys sharply. “Only worms to condition the soil. They'll put them in on Komarr when the temperature and oxygen are high enough. Maybe you can lie down for a minute while I talk to Miles.”

Miles gestured to an armsman standing guard in the parlor. The man nodded, took professor Collier's hand on his arm, and lead her away.

Miles said, “I still don't understand. I know the conditions are a bit rough, but they get a day off a week, and can come back to the city then. And we've given them a full weekend a month. I know they're working hard, but this will be the making of their careers. They can expect to sacrifice something. I can talk to Anton.”

—“You're missing the main issue,” the professora said. “I'm not sure you're familiar with the condition called “love at first hate.”

He was still puzzled. “They're in love? I should have thought about that, they're away from their own friends and family. But we're down there all the time, and she should have told you, anyway.”

“She's envious of me. I've had a long career, three children, and am still married almost fifty years later to a man who adores me. He sometimes comes down to the site with me, and has given some engineering advice to the archeologists. But I didn't see how far it had gone until she showed up here today. 

“I think everyone is under too much stress now. Our original team, the hillmen, the new group from the University—the archeologists think they know better than Duv and don't treat him with enough respect. Yesterday he messaged me and said that he was about to fire them all and get a team in from Komarr.”

Miles goggled. “He can't do that. I'll tell Gregor”—

“I set him straight again. But I can't keep being pulled every way by all these people. I have my own courses, and of course the article I'm writing about this. I think everyone needs a week off.”

“The exhibition is slowing down already! We've only got another three months to get it done.”

“Gregor doesn't care how long it takes, as long as it's good. I told his senior secretary that someone should give a press conference, announcing the findings in general detail, making them sound a little boring, and giving updates as necessary.”

“I'll do it!”

She smiled at him. “You'd do a good job, but we want to soothe the populace, not excite them. I think Duv. He can do bland and boring very well.”

He dropped the subject. “So we turn them loose on Vorbarr Sultana for a week?”

“No, I think we should treat them like envoys. I think we should show them, particularly Alessia, how beautiful and open some places are. I was thinking of a stop in the South Continent, among others.”

“The beach? Aren't Komarrans are afraid of open water?”

“So we'll find a five-star hotel on the beach... Restaurants, pools, tennis courts”—

“What the heck are tennis courts?”

“It's an Earth sport, and has been resurrected. Some of the restaurants serve only vat meat, and some even serve only vegetables.”

“And what else, after we're all full of broccoli?”

She smiled. “I've heard the story about your micromosaicist from Ekaterin. You protected her hills, and gave more activities for the soldiers on base next to the hills. Grav-carts, I've heard. You'd probably enjoy both.” (1)

“Me?”

“Yes, I think we all should go. Ekaterin hasn't exactly complained to me, but she's getting a little weary. Most of your Auditor jobs haven't taken this long.”

“Oh, let's take all the kids, too, if Ekaterin wants—or maybe she wants a break from them. Duv and Delia should come too.

He started pacing, 

“We'll be at the Black Escarpment, where there's some still snow on the peaks in mid-summer. Maybe we can get up there. It's above the tree line. But I don't know if they have lift cables. When we come back to Vorbarr Sultana, I'll get Gregor and Laisa to have them over for dinner. Or maybe lunch, so they can visit the gardens. I don't know whether we can show Alessia the war museum—Yuri's scalp might be too much for her. But I'll check with Ivan for the hottest spots. Tour of the city. Tours. Ekaterin can show them her gardens.”

The professora laughed. “When you say we, you're really thinking of the young people. I don't need a tour of the city. You can chaperone, or Ekaterin, as you wish.”

“They will be very tired out. Will they want to go back to work?”

“I've always needed to go on a vacation after I go on vacation. I know the idea of resting is not one you embrace. But we can give them another day off before they go back to Vorkosigan Vashnoi.”

“Are you trying to match-make?” 

“Not exactly. If they want to get closer, they can. I do hope they'll work better together after this, respect each other's boundaries—Anton had no business going to the Cetagandans without telling her. She's completely in the right there. But he was young and excited. He did show initiative in tackling the Cetagandans, after all. I know Alessia doesn't understand that he needed courage to visit them.”

“Well, you can play the Baba, I don't care. I only want things on track.”

“And on that subject, about the archeologists, Duv, and your hillmen...”

Miles groaned. An Auditor's work was never done.

That evening, without any push from anyone, a contrite Anton knocked on the Professora's door. Alessia glowered at seeing him. He held out a prettily wrapped box to her. 

“I talked to the cooks at our site and the lake house. They said you liked the hard butter toffee, especially the chocolates. So I brought you some. I'm sorry about not telling you about going to the embassy. It was a sudden idea of mine.”

Alessia growled at him. “I'm still mad at you. I'll want to look your abstract over.”

“But of course. Are you hungry? I know a quiet place.”

She shrugged and some of her bitterness dropped away. “All right.”

000000000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1)  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9027967/1/Captain-Vorpatril-s-Plotbunnies
> 
> This is the reference about the micromosaicist, by BracketyJack


	6. Launch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening night at the exhibition.

Miles was pacing behind stage at the Vorbarr Sultana Company Hall. In spite of holographs, live performances improved an audience's appreciation. He couldn't get very far without bumping into a flat, or a screen, or a wire, or a person, but that didn't stop him. He almost stepped out on stage from behind a red velvet curtain, but backed up just in time. He peeked out. The hall had an orchestra pit, which was now tuning up. Thunder could still be heard over the orchestra. The weather had decided to supply its own mood, although the autumn storm didn't seemed to have diminished the audience numbers. A loud 'crack' boomed overhead, and the lights dimmed momentarily. Miles held his breath. They came back on in seconds.

It wasn't quite clear how he'd acquired a music director, a composer, and an orchestra. Somebody had snapped their fingers in the last two weeks and said, “we don't have any sounds effects!” He was going to have sound effects as well as a score.

He could see the special square openings for the hologram projections. They weren't on. Was this good, or bad? As he focused on them, the squares brightened to life with the odd sparkling effect peculiar to holograms.

He thought sadly of his original plan for the relics of Vorkiosigan Vashnoi: frame the pictures, having airbrushed more veils over the least offensive ones of the women, put a couple of samples of atomsite in glass boxes, order in some wine and cheese, and be done before the coffee cooled. Put it in the display cases at Vorhartung castle alongside the other war memorabilia. It would probably be just as effective as this shindig. He had blockaded wormholes with fewer troops than these.

Now he was in the best auditorium in Vorbarr Sultana, whose director had told him that if the show could wait a few months, they'd be through with the expansion from a seating capacity of 3000 to one of 5000. Miles hadn't screamed at him. If the presentation had taken one more week, everyone's suppressed emotions would implode.

The orchestra was quieting down, which meant that he'd be on stage soon. He'd wanted to wear the grayest of his gray suits, but Ekaterin finally convinced him he would stand out more if he wore a brilliant white shirt with it. He had acquiesced. It meant that if he spilled any of his anti-acid on the shirt the pink would stand out, too, but he didn't tell her that. In the green room behind the stage he had decided against a second cup of coffee. His bladder had to stay the course, after all. 

He could still smell the new paint. Someone had decided—the artistic director? When had he gotten an artistic director...that the audience should have as much visual impact as possible. They were going to have backdrops as well as holographs. At that point he'd almost given up control. Where was Ekaterin? She should be at the very front—she was going to wear a brown and silver dress, for Vorkosigan house colors, but he'd told her he liked her better in blue. Light blue flattered her face and gave her an aura of peace. There. He thought about poking his head out and giving her a big wave, but he didn't want to embarrass her.

The way he'd thought of it originally, admission would be free. Now it was 200 marks a ticket, Gregor trying to get back some of his losses, he would have said, except that he'd been told the audience wouldn't think they were getting their money's worth if they paid less. 

Two hundred marks covered not only the program at the company hall, but also viewing the actual artifacts themselves at the Imperial Residence, partaking of whatever light supper Gregor wanted to put on. There were soft quiet groundcar shuttles to take the guests from the company hall to the Residence. It was 100 marks for the holographic show itself. The ticket costs were reduced for various groups—students, veterans, seniors—he had petitioned Gregor for some relief. His hillpeople would get in for free. Oh, and it was 25 more marks if you wanted a program guide with all the pictures. Thank god the performance was being recorded so that everyone could view it later for free. That was the whole point, a mass exposure to the truth.

Four days ago had been his latest snapping point. Dr. Banastas Enzo, chairman of the history department at Solstice University, and Alessia's nominal supervisor, had arrived at the spaceport, checking into a hotel there. She flew to him like a baby bird returning to its nest. It had been hard to get her back for final reviews and rehearsals because the jerk wouldn't leave his hotel. He did not tolerate open spaces. 

Miles had visited him once and found an overweight, ponderous man, wearing what Duv told him later was the newest Komarran fashion, but for men thirty years younger. It was a suit, supposedly, but bright, and orange, and, oh god, who had found the paisley cutouts again? And it had billowy trousers which were gathered at the ankles.

“Do something about Enzo! He's getting in my hair and up my nose!”

“Sort of a mixed metaphor, don't you think?” Duv was feeling snarky, too, which in him meant that his low, dry voice was even drier. It was 2200 hours, and nobody had slept well for weeks.

“He's arrogant, pompous, thinks he knows everything. He regards our work here like something stuck to his shoe. He's oh so solicitous that we won't get it done in time. He hasn't shown up for rehearsals. I tell you, it's enough to make me look for my seal dagger!”

Duv knew that the seal dagger in question, a priceless heirloom Miles hadn't worn in years, was mounted on the wall behind him, in place of prominence. In fact, he could even see it behind Miles in the comconsole view.

“Anyway, I've stood him for two days and that's all. He's Komarran, you're Komarran, tag, you're it!”

“Miles”—

“Whatever you were going to say, don't. He's your problem to wrangle.” 

“I was going to ask where he is.”

“In his hotel. Alessia is with him. That's another no-fly zone, too, whether she's just an eager student, or getting it on. Anton went so far as to ask me.” 

Miles continued. “They're what, twenty-six? If my kids are that sappy at twenty-six, I'll disown them.”

Now it was go time. The announcer came out to introduce him. He'd make introductory remarks, then the professora would. Duv would speak last. After all that introduction, they'd finally start with the real show.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, my Lord Counts, miladies Countesses, ambassadors... "Welcome to 'The Last Days of Vorksigan Vashnoi."

He was on.

“Good evening. I am glad you are all here, because it means another 3000 people will know the truth about an old tragedy, a war atrocity. Old in terms of years, 84 years, but not old in my heart. In your hearts. Last spring I was given a series of extraordinary pictures, black and white images from a vanished city. You will see them tonight, as well as stunning new discoveries from Vorkosigan Vashnoi itself. I want to introduce you to the remarkable staff who has worked with us on this project, from the universities to the hills of my District. First we have our lead team from Vorbarr Sultana University and Solstice University”... “my liegemen from Vorkosigan District, archeologists, Barrayaran Army brigade 247, the Dendarii mercenaries..” 

“Thank you. I will turn the podium over to my colleague the Professora Helen Vorthys, Treavanan chair of modern history...”

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,...

He hurried off the stage and found Ekaterin. She was looking in the opposite direction, frowning. He took advantage of this and kissed her on her cheek. Her warm skin carried a fragrance he loved. She turned to him and made a face. He slipped into a seat which wasn't very comfortable. Maybe when they were through remodeling the place they could replace the seats. He thought irrelevantly of what you could do with three thousand worn-out auditorium seats. You couldn't put them in the nearest collection box for the poor. 

Dr. Vorthys was wearing a dark red dress—it looked like velvet. which gathered under the breast and flowed simply away to the floor. She had braided her gray hair with gold, and the dress was trimmed with gold lace. It was beautiful. Unfortunately, inadvertently, it was the same red and velvet as the auditorium curtains. He heard a little chuckling murmur and realized he wasn't the only one to think this.

“ We have been privileged to work with the finest people I can imagine. Lord Auditor Count Vorkosigan has named some. I will tell you of others.” It had nothing to do with the history, and he thought it was a time-waster, but all the same they wouldn't have finished the dig without “our quartermaster...head housekeeper, cook...transport...”

Finally it was Duv Galeni's chance.

“It is my great Honor and pleasure to be here tonight. (Miles heard the stress on honor) It a very great honor to have been selected by Emperor Gregor Vorbarra for this amazing project. I owe my presence in this place to him, and to the Court-who-was Aral Vorkosigan, first viceroy of Sergyar. Prime Minister, Regent, Admiral. As many of you know, I was born on Komarr. I had an aunt who was killed at the Solstice massacre. For many years I was a Komarran loyalist (Miles noted that he'd avoided the phrase 'Komarran terrorist.' )

“Then I became convinced that I could serve Komarr best by studying Barrayar. I became convinced that I needed to adopt the regime change after the Komarran revolt, and study its—conqueror. Consequently I left Komarr, and in the due course of my studies, gained a PhD in history at the Vorbarr Sultana University. When the decision was made that the Imperial Military Academy would accept Komarran students, I was among the first to apply. Today I hold the rank of Commodore in the Barrayaran army. I am the Imperial Security head of Komarran affairs, the first Komarran to do so. The assimilation by Komarr into the Barrayaran empire has been very difficult at times.”

(Miles thought of his brother Mark, on the Thames River Barrier, struggling with a nerve disrupter. Duv had put his body on the line by stepping in front of Miles to protect him. Only by accident (probably an accident) had Galeni's father Ser Galen died instead of him.)

“We are here tonight to bear witness to a genocide. I firmly believe, and it is my great hope, that the world of Komarr and Barrayar may become closer when we acknowledge it.

“This groundbreaking discovery began when Count Miles Vorkosigan was given a packet of old photographs. You will see them in a short while. For me it began when Miles showed me this:

He held a green crystal out on his hand. It was half as big as his palm, and sparkled. Miles knew it was far lighter than it looked. The holograms carried the picture to all sections of the auditorium.

“This is atomsite. It's a product from Vorkosigan Vashnoi after the Cetagandans destroyed it. It's a glassy residue composed primarily of”...types of stones were listed... “that was melted by the atomic blast. Stone like this forms at 3000 degrees.” People sighed the same way he had. The first holograms sprang to life. Atomsite sparkled through a dead gray street. Duv didn't press his moment.

“My colleague Dr. Anton Pasrill of UVS will show you what this magnificent city was like before the destruction.

Anton Pasrill was introduced. His presentation brought history to life.

He manipulated the images easily enough in time with the music score, which had been at a low intensity before. Miles realized that Anton was a born performer, highly skilled, who would dominate his field in years to come by the charisma he could project when speaking. He would give lectures to audiences greater than this one. Miles had seen nothing of this in the mild man who had wandered slowly through the site, helping as needed, but mostly being as benign as soap. He was intense and concentrated now. 

“Vorkosigan Vashnoi first began as a trading post between the Dendarii Mountains and the towns of the plains below. It existed throughout the whole Time of Isolation, only to fall less than thirty years after our rediscovery. It was beautiful.”

He had spliced sketches, paintings, and vids. The city's stone arches sprang to view. Here were burghers in finery, and children in rags. A city market. Grassy parks—the holograms lingered on these, and Miles knew this was a setup for the kicking death.  
“Lastly here are a type of still vids, 'photographs' in a black and white medium, which were taken by a remarkable artist shortly before the fall.” The boys, the girl enticing her kitten with string, the struggling rose, evinced another sigh.

“These are some of the survivors, the very few known survivors, of the bombing.”

Miles came on stage again. He had prepared detailed notes of the types and numbers of the ships and weaponry Cetaganda would have needed, and had found vids of them. The incendiary ships and deep-explosive bombers flashed in a holographic projection directly over the audience, with grumbles and roars. Some people shrieked. The producer had even added smells of burning wood and broken stone. A mushroom cloud bloomed tall and malignantly behind him. Over the audience's heads it billowed out all the way to the top of the ceiling. The lights blinked off for a moments, then on again.

He had many more pictures of jumpships, crews, but the artistic director, or was it the producer?—and when had he an acquired a producer?

Anyway, the woman had pleaded with him. “Less is more, Count Vorkosigan. We have a lot still to come.

Anton finished with “even before the physical destruction, the Cetagandans bore down on the citizens, physically and emotionally.” The photographs of the killing in the park and the mass grave.

Alessia took over. “Another way in which the Cetagandans destroyed the city's heart was by humiliating its women.” She lead off with a series of vids of normally clad women. “Barrayar is a conservative society, from its highest society”—pictures of the Winterfair Ball, with laughter and music piped across the auditorium. The High Vor exposed a fair amount of skin across the bosom and down the back. Skirts were long and full, of course. “...to its poorest.” Typical hillwomen were presented, wrapped in sweaters and long dresses. “The Cetagandans took advantage of innocent women.” She too, had carefully framed the pornographic pictures. She'd added wisps of clothes to the figures on the couches, added in another Cetagandan figure to shield the activities in some of the others, and in general made it more somewhat more bearable. It was still revolting.

The Professora was on stage again, with a shift to dark and curious music.  
“The most unexpected part of our investigations was at the northern gate. We found that the destruction was not total. We found corpses of persons who had died and whose bodies had been preserved through a manner our archeologists are still reviewing. Some artifacts were with them.” She brought up vids of the half-fallen wall which had sheltered (momentarily) the corpses they'd found. Holograms placed the audience at ground level, walking among the disturbing forms. The lights picked out a mother and baby, even a dog.

She switched to pictures of some stabilizing synth-plaster casts. Then the artifacts were shown. The music changed, subtly bringing the mood up a bit. Miles conceded at this point that the various directors and producers might have been right. They had certainly created an impressive and unique emotional display.

The gold bracelets, some other small jewelry, including a Devil's Eye stone to ward against the evil eye, glittered. So did the metal weapons for the men. Everything had been polished to brightness, even the dog's collar. The lead archeologist had pleaded to be allowed to speak on the stabilization techniques, and tell how much more work was needed. He was awarded a page in the booklet. He was still sulking tonight.

Alessia was back again.

“The photographs you have seen were taken by Mikhail Mironov. We found him in the Dendarii mountains. This is the image I worked with. She framed the picture of Katya yelling out of the truck. The next image made everyone gasp. A Barrayaran woman in a wedding dress next to a Cetagandan ghem, both smiling. 

Miles knew it was coming, but was also startled. 

“I believe that this Cetagandan struggled on the last day to warn his wife. To save their child. The truck she is driving is a small Cetagandan type which would be difficult for a Barrayaran woman to commandeer. She has carried away some of the subjects of the pictures you have seen before." The girl with the cat, the two boys, an old woman.

“I located the family of this woman, not without difficulties.” Alessia herself was in a vid, mounted on a horse, scowling at the photographer. Her hair was tangled, face muddy, arms scratched. The audience laughed for the first time. Miles was very pleased at the way Alessia expressed nothing of the raving despair she'd shown him. He had been very lucky in his professional team. Except for the no-show Enzo, of course. “Her name was Katya Dorosh. She has a great-granddaughter still living, with whom I conversed at length. I learned her husband's name—Jal Peric. Ghem-General Peric is still alive, although we have not heard from him.”

Alessia presented her last prize, the black and white photo of Katya Dorosh and Mikhail Mironov. They were seated in an iconic location, the Mountain of the King, perhaps the most beautiful in the Dendariis, smiling. Mironov was holding the line to the time release cable of the camera. A larger girl stood between them, another baby on Katya's lap. “This is the picture of Katya Dorosh with her second husband.”

She ended her presentation.

Miles was up next to close, and was on the steps to the stage. But to his shock, Dr. Enzo stumbled past him. Duv went by Miles, expression ferocious. He gripped Enzo at the shoulder and arm, the better to throw him off, it looked like. What the hell?

Dr. Enzo wiped his face with a handkerchief, and Miles realized with a twinge that Enzo had been crying. He faced the audience again, lips quivering. Duv still held his arm. His expression said that if Enzo put one toe out of line, said one wrong word, down the steps he went.

“This has been a stunning spectacle. It has moved my heart. I have mourned the Martyrs of Solstice my whole life. I lost an uncle there. I have always believed that the massacre was a reprisal for the destruction of Vorkosigan Vashnoi”— Duv's arm bit into Enzo's and visibly jerked him—Miles would jump him without question if the man didn't recant. “but I have learned differently tonight.

“I submit to you that the city's destruction is a gross and vile atrocity of war greater than anything else that has happened in centuries. Three hundred thousand souls died there, and the survivors may have numbered as few as those we have seen here. Plus, before the city was destroyed, the heart and soul was degraded.

“At Solstice the murders were carried out in about forty-five minutes. That's a long time to see your death coming.”

Deep breath. “But the Martyrs were not tortured and tormented for months and years. Innocent women were not abused. Men were not kicked to death in places of recreation. We only saw one photo of a mass grave, but Vorkosigan Vashnoi is an entire mass grave.”

That's MY line, thought Miles, and hurried onstage to the edge of the curtains. 

“The Barrayarans were not permitted to name their dead and mourn them, something we had at the massacre.”

Even while he steamed at this clown's usurpation, Miles could tell that Enzo had dropped the capital M that he'd always heard Komarrans use.

Deeper breath. “We Komarrans have always said, 'it was the work of the Cetagandans, not us. We have held ourselves aloof from this tragedy, as we have for the death of five million Innocent Lives (the stress was there) during the twenty year Cetagandan occupation.

“Tonight I say that it is time for Komarr to face its responsibility for all those deaths. When a helpless, near barbarian world was rediscovered, we did not hold out our hand in help. We did not do anything to raise this world into the galactic community. You might say, “I didn't do it. It's not me, I'm not one of the oligarchs. I don't own a fleet.” The plain, simple, unvarnished truth is that our planet, our home, betrayed another innocent, weaker one. We are the ones who let in the Cetagandans. It is our guilt and a shame for our planet.” There was a hush, then loud applause.

At this Miles walked out to the middle of the stage, nodded to the audience, and stepped in front of Enzo. He was not about to let this fat Komarran, no matter how contrite and noble he sounded, take the glory everyone else had sweated blood for. Duv was already helping/dragging Enzo off. Enzo was weeping again.

The applause got even louder and wilder for Miles. There were cheers—even a few whistles. Then everyone was on their feet, and the ovation went on for minutes. Miles gestured at Alessia and Anton, and then Duv, to come back. Each got yells. He didn't think the human throat could produce more sounds. Then the Professora took a bow by herself. She started laughing when she got wolf-whistles, and then there was a louder roar of laughter. People started stomping their feet. Barrayarans were not completely socialized, Miles thought. 

The applause went on and on. He waved Ekaterin, Delia, and Professor Vorthys to the stage. Miles bowed so many times he was dizzy. The producer closed the red curtains for a final time, flashing the lights, and only then did the applause begin to fade.

000000  
Champagne, coffee, and light refreshments were set up in the foyers. Miles didn't want anything. A dull reaction was settling in. He was exhausted to the bone and he could smell his own sweat. He swayed, dizzy again.

“Ekaterin, I'm not going on to the Residence. Let's go home.”  
“Yes, let's. I sent everyone to a babysitter, so we'll have our rooms to ourselves. She yawned and then pointed. “Who's that?”

While the Komarran Embassy had courteously sent a good dozen of its diplomats, the Cetagandans had sent only three, in full face paint. They'd been placed far back on the ground floor. The envoy, an unmistakable body guard, and... who was the third one? He was wearing the multi-layers of white robes used at funerals.

The third was elderly, Miles could tell, and his heart jumped. He raced to the man's side.

“Count Vorkosigan?”

“Yes. And you must be Ghem-General Jal Peric.”

“Yes. Your young man messaged me, and I thought I'd come rather than messaging back. Can you—would it be possible for me to...?”

—and if Miles' heart hadn't been beating fast before, it was now. “Yes, this way. We seated them here.”

The pair continued down to the row Miles and Ekaterin had been sitting in.

“Let me present you to the family of Katya Dorosh.”

The old Cetagandan bowed to them deeply, hands together, a gesture of deep respect.

Miles and Ekaterin stood with arms around each other. He pulled her face down to his for a kiss. Both their cheeks were wet.

 

000000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of my inspiration, small though it may seem, was my finding of an envelope of pictures almost a hundred years old. How about if Miles were given...?


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after the exhibition

“They fired him! How-the-hell?” Miles choked on a bite of scone slathered with strawberry jam and reached for something to drink to clear his mouth. Unfortunately, it was the strong herbal liquor Duv had brought back from Komar. He sputtered even more. Duv pressed his lips together, not letting his chuckle escape. It was exactly the effect he'd intended. He'd been feeling brotherly toward Miles recently. Big brotherly.

Delia had witnessed the whole by-play as she hurried into the comfortable parlor. The children must be in bed, then. She pinched Duv on the neck. “Stop that! You're acting like a ten-year old.”

Duv continued more soberly. “Yes. Solstice University fired Dr. Banastas Enzo, the chairman of their history department.” He leaned back on the green couch, a little worn from its misuse by children and pets. It had nostalgia value because it was the first piece of furniture Delia and he had bought together. She squashed down beside him, even though there was plenty of room. Their modest house didn't resemble Vorkosigan House in the slightest, except in the warmness created by each chatelaine. He could still smell the aroma of the stew she'd prepared for dinner.

He relented a bit. “Yes. He messaged me. He's packed up his whole office and put it in storage in the Serifosa Dome.”

“But why? He must have done something really heinous.” Miles squinted his eyes narrowly. “Was it Alessia? Surely they wouldn't—that would be bad, but I would think some internal discipline”—Miles sat on the edge of a green and gold side chair. The previous occupant of the chair, an orange tabby, jumped back onto Miles' lap and he was gently petting it. He'd gotten the aggressive thing to settle down and purr.

“No. And it was never Alessia in the first place. She was so lonely to see another Komarran that she stayed with him for long hours, but not romantically. No, they fired him for being insane.” 

Miles wrinkled his brow. “But—he's a little outrageous—Duv, tell me what the hell's going on!” Delia poured some coffee for Miles, and he sipped. Duv wasn't about to try the same trick twice, and he waited for Miles to swallow. His hooded eyes darkened from their nutmeg brown. 

Delia leaned into him, and he could feel her warmth. Perfect, beautiful, humorous, she was a better wife than he could have imagined.

He sighed, relaxing a bit from Delia's comfort. “They fired him for being insane enough to be taken in by the Vorkosigan Vashnoi exhibition, and since they're not completely insane, also for a conflict of interest. Seems he's been going around preaching Komarr reconciliation to anyone who'll stand still long enough to hear him.”

He picked up one of the heavy scones, split it quickly with a knife, and piled clotted cream on it. Then a dab of strawberry jam. When Delia told him that scones and clotted cream represented the new food fad in Vorbarr Sultana—entrepreneurs were trying to bring back old-Earther dishes—it sounded horrible. Who would want to eat soured milk? But she bought some, and he was surprised to find that clotted cream was much like a delicious heavy butter. He offered her a bite.

"Enzo seemed like a hog at the exhibition. I was furious with him for being a no-show til then that I grabbed his arm when he jumped out of his seat. I was that close to pitching him back down the stairs. It would have ruined the whole thing, so I didn't. But since then he's become an advocate for our point of view.”

Miles sat up more. The tabby regressed to its normal behavior, laid back its ears, hissed, dug its claws in him, and jumped down. Miles didn't even wince. Right, he'd had dozens of cats to train him. “Can't he get another job anywhere? Or has he spoiled the well on all of them?”

“He probably could get another academic job. But he seems to be done with academia. He's going the route everyone prominent does when they get kicked out of a top job—write a book and go on speaking tours.”

Duv could see Miles' jaw tighten. “That bastard! We did all the work and he's going to get rich off it! I'm talking to Gregor about this!” He seemed ready to fling himself up and search out the nearest comconsole. The cat came over, huffily, and sat on Delia's free side.

“I wouldn't worry yet. He's announced that he will give ninety percent of any profits to the project, to be spent anyway we want. He'll be open book, let any accountant we care to send check him out. He sent me his first check.” The wind was picking up outside, and he could hear branches thumping against the house. Even after all this time, wind and storms reminded him he was truly on an alien planet. Temperature changes he'd gotten used to, and the colored glories of season change he adored. Storms, though, heavy rain, thunder, and lightning still put him a bit on edge. He hid it from his Barrayaran wife and children.

He passed a slip of paper to Miles. He had the satisfaction of getting the drop twice on Miles in one conversation. Miles turned the check over and studied it, possibly to be sure it wasn't play money from a children's game.

“It's forty-five thousand marks.” He'd never seen Miles stunned before. Miles sat back in the chair, his feet dangling off the chair. Duv had considered getting a child's chair for him. Miles would think it an insult.

“Forty-five thousand Betan dollars. A hundred eighty thousand marks.” He'd been shocked, too, although not by Enzo's changed beliefs, because he'd seen the exact moment they'd changed. He remembered the auditorium with its uncomfortable seats. He'd already made a courteous call to the director, on behalf of their new expansion.

“What are his conditions? What's his angle in this?” Miles still sounded suspicious.He looked perilously close to pacing. Duv hoped he wouldn't. The number of times he'd had to haul Miles down to earth was in the dozens and he was quite tired of it.

“No conditions. Spend it as we will.” He shrugged. “Call it blood money, call it whatever you want. He's apparently very sincere.”

“I don't believe a word he says. Even if he does send the money, why would he change his mind so fast?” Miles started biting his fingers, another manifestation of his relentless hyperactivity. The longer he spent around Miles, the more he respected Ekaterin. She was the only one who could quiet him down.

“Wasn't that the result you were hoping for? He changed his mind when he sat through the program. He was sitting next to me, and I saw when he started crying. It was when you pitched out the bombs into the audience. He came completely undone.” Duv was suddenly quite annoyed. Miles seemed stuck on his negative, quarrelsome outlook. Okay, let him go home, get some rest. They could take it up when he wasn't exhausted.

He glared at Miles, who glared back, a bit defensively. His eyes were deeper in their sockets than they should be. Yes, although Miles was masking fatigue and probably pain, he needed to send the man home.

Delia spoke up, blonde hair up in a plait running around her head. This was her normal daily coiffure. Taking out her hair pins and letting the dark blond lengths out was a huge turn-on for him, every night. “Duv, I took a course one time in comparative religions."

He smiled quizzically at her, turning his head. “Oh?”

“Yes, well, I started the course, but dropped it. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of them, and it seemed like the instructor was going to cover them all. But before I dropped it, he'd covered some of the old Earth religions, all of which started wars lasting generations. She put her head on his shoulder. He shifted his head down to rest on hers. She smelled of strawberries. It was in fact, he saw, a bit of the strawberry jam clinging to one corner of her mouth. It was definitely time for both of them to sleep.

“I remember one thing, though I can't quite remember which religion it was. There was a man who persecuted members of a new religion, hunting them down and killing them. Then he had a great change of heart, for some reason, and joined the very religion he'd been hunting. He never wavered in his new faith, and spent the rest of his life trying to get followers. He even went to prison for it.”

“I remember that, too, now you remind me.” His own comparative religion classes were far behind him, but he'd also been struck by its similarity to his own life. That was—Pole, Pol?” 

“Well, we'll see.” Miles still sounded begrudging. He'd never known an entire shift in worldview, or been forced to suffer from a traitorous father.

Miles shook his head. “Look, I know it's late, and I'll be off in a minute. But we need to review the permanent installations at the site. We've got to get them finished before winter. I'm really afraid we're going to lose some corpses.” 

“There we are now being helped by the archeologists.”

Miles laughed. “Two converts in one day, Duv. Great job.” He stood up and searched around for his coat. 

“I'll get it.” Delia shifted her warmth away from him, getting up to be the perfect political hostess. Perfect, absolutely perfects. He was going to taste that jam very soon.

“Yes, all right, well, we'll talk tomorrow.”

After the little man had been seated in his ground car, Delia embraced Duv, saying, “This is fantastic! You've spent so much time, years, hoping to change minds, and you have. I love you.

“And I love you.” He took her head in his hands, tipped it up, and brought his mouth down gently, tasting the strawberry jam.

**Author's Note:**

> I am extremely grateful for Pinterest sites for inspiration art for this piece:
> 
> Diane Coffman for “Vorkosigan's World” This site contains the picture of atomsite
> 
> Gwynne Powell for “Views of Old Barrayar” and “Vorbarr Sultana” 
> 
> Meriian Oliver Weymouth- "Barrayaran" Women's Clothing, “Barrayar Dreaming”


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